


Falling Free, Landing Hard

by boasamishipper



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: 1980s, 2010s, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: Maverick looked older than Sundown had expected him to. Tired, worn out like the leather jacket he had slung on the back of his chair. Almost cautious, the way he was looking at him now.Sundown didn’t know quite what to do with that.
Relationships: Marcus "Sundown" Williams/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Black Is Beautiful 2021





	Falling Free, Landing Hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/gifts).



“Jesus, it’s way too fucking early for another debrief.”

“Debrief?” Sundown said, sending a shit-eating grin Chipper’s way as he did up the last button on his shirt. “More likely it’s my promotion.”

Chipper snorted. “You willing to put in a good word for me while you’re in there?”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

Commander Caffrey had them come in together and made them stand at attention in front of his desk while they worked up a decent sweat from the cigar smoke and the heat warping the air. Caffrey didn’t usually mince words, which Sundown liked in a CO, and today was no different. As it happened, this wasn’t a debrief, but it was the closest thing to a promotion Sundown could get beyond adding another silver bar to his collar: as a reward for being the best damn duo on the USS _Ranger_ (a slight paraphrase), they’d get to spend the next five weeks living it up at Miramar.

Sundown couldn’t stop grinning the whole time. Beside him, Chipper was serious and diplomatic all through the explanation — that Ivy League background kicked in hard when it had to — and the painfully congratulatory back slaps, but the second Caffrey’s office door closed behind them he let out a whoop and practically knocked Sundown into the wall from the force of his embrace. “Can you believe this shit? I told you spotting those MiGs last week would get us some props.”

“I still don’t think they were MiGs, man. Large birds, maybe.”

“Don’t tell Caffrey, he might change his mind.” Sundown laughed, and Chipper threw an arm around Sundown’s shoulders, pulled him close as they continued down the hall. “We’re gonna be the best team those sons of bitches’ve ever seen. You and me, Sundown, you and me.”

* * *

 **Chip:** _Hey man, gonna have to raincheck for tonight. Grace’s parents dropped by on their way to NC so we gotta put them up for the night. Sorry, next time you’re in town for sure_ ☀️😢 _Congrats again on the promotion!_

Sundown put his elbows on the counter, careful not to upset his glass, and rested his chin in his hands. He wished he had the energy to be angry about it — this was his third leave in a row Chipper had blown him off, any guilt Chipper felt right now would serve him right — but all that was there was a familiar dullness in the pit of his stomach. He knew he’d just text Chipper something in the morning and his heart would skip a beat at the smiley face he’d get in return. He wondered if anything he could come up with — _thanks, no worries, have fun, tell Grace I say hi_ — would manage to come off genuine.

Why he even bothered was beyond him. Chipper was married now, had a family. He had better things to do than relive the glory days with someone he hadn’t even flown with in more than twenty years. (Especially since what was on the table in the past had long since been cleared away.)

Sundown looked down at his phone for the seventh time in the past hour and sighed. Not like he'd be doing much flying anymore now either.

“Get you something to drink, Captain?”

Sundown opened his mouth to say _Admiral, actually,_ even though the silver stars on his collar were less than a day old, but his eyes caught up to his mouth in time to see that the bartender was talking to somebody else. Funny, the Officers’ Club was half deserted last time he looked up, other than those two commanders choking down peanuts and cheap vodka he saw on the way in. Evidently Norfolk hadn’t gotten any more happening in the seven years since Sundown had been here last.

A trio of bright-eyed lieutenants blocking Sundown’s view got their drinks and moved to another table in the corner. Sundown was surprised to see the newly arrived captain staring at him, and — his stomach lurched — even more surprised at the prickle of recognition that ran like cold fingers down his spine. 

“Sundown?”

Funny how that made his heart soar for the briefest of seconds and took him back to that day on the tarmac all at the same time. Even Chipper called him Marc more than his callsign these days. “Yeah,” he said, and straightened up in his chair. “Hey, Maverick.”

* * *

Unlike Chipper, Sundown didn’t put much stock in first impressions — he knew by now that a guy who acted nice one minute could turn on a dime and ask you when you walked into this town from the cotton fields the next. He was happy to see that half the guys at TOPGUN weren’t what they seemed at first glance; Hollywood and Wolfman were prim and proper on paper, but they could still cut loose and tell a dirty joke with the confidence of a teenage boy when they weren’t under the instructors’ thumbs.

Then there were the others. Sundown had seen his fair share of pilots who walked around base and flew like their shit smelled sweeter than most. Those were the types of pilots he’d been assigned to who’d dismissed him as a RIO and a person before he could even open his mouth. He’d figured Iceman (whose reputation preceded him) would be one of those, but Iceman — though he didn’t talk much, just loomed in the background and took in everything with that sharp pale gaze — was polite with pretty much everybody. Even with Sundown and Chipper, even though they were vying for dead last.

Best on the _Ranger,_ sure. Best of the best? Not so much.

He tried his best to be okay with that.

Maverick Mitchell, on the other hand. Christ. Between the cocky, reckless attitude and the rumor-proven-true that he was screwing their TAGREP, Sundown wasn’t all that impressed. Goose might have been a stand-up guy, but Sundown didn’t know how he’d put up with a guy like Maverick for so long without going insane. Either that or he faked tolerance well enough to fool a priest, a rabbi and a lie detector to boot.

The boy could _fly,_ though. Sundown had to give him that. He just never thought he’d get the opportunity to see Maverick fly up close and personal. Nor had he really _wanted_ to — but the choice wasn’t his. The day after Maverick’s acquittal, three days after the funeral, Viper called him and Chipper and a couple of the others at the bottom of the scoreboard into his office, said in his calm way that he’d be switching some of the teams around. He didn’t say a word about this all being a convoluted way to get Maverick back into the sky. Sundown read between the lines anyway.

Chipper was pissed about it. Truth be told, Sundown was too. He wanted to finish the session with his pilot, graduate as a team. Only his respect for Goose and the fact that he knew deep down Maverick hadn’t asked for any of this either made him keep his mouth shut. Besides, maybe whatever points he and Maverick could rack up could be added onto his and Chipper’s scores. It could all work out.

Only Maverick wouldn’t engage. Not in conversation, not in the air, nothing. Sundown felt a balloon of anger expanding in his chest, scorching him from the inside. Not even because Maverick kept refusing to take the shot Jester was practically serving him on a silver platter — but because Maverick didn’t even have the fucking courtesy to tell Sundown why, just blew him off with a muttered _It doesn’t look good._ Alright, Sundown hadn’t expected everything to be as easy as it was with him and Chipper, but there had to be some fucking _respect_ between a pilot and RIO, goddamn it, some fucking trust. The least Maverick Mitchell could do was give him that.

Maverick took off the second they were back on the ground, didn’t even look at him. Sundown _steamed._

“Hey, man, we could have had him.” Maverick’s shoulders went stiff as a board, and Sundown felt a burst of petty satisfaction at having gotten _some_ kind of reaction out of him. “Hey! We could have _had_ him, man!”

Quick as a flash, Maverick was on him, had Sundown by the front of his flight suit in a white knuckled grip. “I will fire when I am _goddamned good and ready.”_ Maverick shook him for emphasis, and Sundown couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare right into the mirrored lenses of Maverick’s aviators. “You got that?”

For a split second, there was something there. Something in the quaver of Maverick’s voice beneath the snarl, the way his hands were trembling, the way his teeth were bared. There one second, gone the next as Maverick shoved Sundown away and stalked off down the runway without looking back.

Sundown just stood there in the middle of the flow of his classmates, his heart racing, and wondered why he felt like he was teetering over the edge of something just beyond his reach. 

* * *

Maverick’s reputation preceded him. Sundown might not have been one for gossip, but when rumors about a former classmate crossed his path, he couldn’t do much but sit there and listen. Legends about stunts so dangerous they made Sundown feel queasy, missions in the Gulf and Afghanistan and Iraq and who knew where else, all the medals he’d racked up as a test pilot. He hadn’t seen Maverick Mitchell since they’d parted ways at graduation, but he’d cobbled together an image of Maverick in his head from all the stories over the years — older now, sure, but still the same cocky son of a bitch he was when they first met. Probably still chasing glory, women, the hot thrill of adrenaline. The typical All-American flyboy, through and through.

He looked older than Sundown had expected him to. Tired, worn out like the leather jacket he had slung on the back of his chair. Almost cautious, the way he was looking at him now.

Sundown didn’t know quite what to do with that.

“Are you stationed here now?”

Maverick shook his head. “Just here on leave,” he said. He spoke quieter than Sundown remembered too. “You?”

Sundown nodded, then realized that didn’t answer anything. “I’ve got a few days to kill ‘til I go to DC,” he said. “Got a nice desk job free with my promotion.”

Maverick’s eyes zeroed in on Sundown’s uniform, at the twin silver stars gleaming in the mood lights. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He meant it. He saw Maverick looking at him, at the lack of company to celebrate with, and wondered — with no small dose of bitterness — just how pathetic he looked right now. He felt like a Christmas tree left in the dark, all decorated with no one around to see. He considered saying that his mom, sisters, two nephews and a grandniece had shown up for the ceremony and cheered the whole way through before heading back to Spokane by way of Shenandoah, but the idea of bragging about that just made him feel worse. He finished his drink and nodded at the spot beside Maverick. “You expecting anyone?”

Maverick’s eyebrows went up. He shook his head again.

“Great,” Sundown said, and patted the open space of countertop next to him. Maverick opened his mouth, and Sundown cut him off, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he suddenly felt. “I’m buying, Mitchell. Front and center.”

Maverick sized him up for a second, then got off his stool. He tucked his leather jacket under his arm and crossed the distance slowly, like he thought any second Sundown might take the invitation back. It was only when Maverick gingerly lowered himself onto the stool with a grimace he disguised as a polite smile that Sundown realized he had absolutely no idea what to do now that the brief adrenaline rush had left him. He wondered if this was how Maverick felt all the time.

“I heard you were flying with Iceman for a while,” Sundown said, once the silence had dragged on past the point of excruciating. “You two still keep in touch?”

Maverick’s smile froze on his face, went tight. “Nah. Not anymore.”

“Chip mentioned he got promoted a while back. Admiral now, right?”

“Three stars,” Maverick confirmed, a hint of pride beneath the quiet bitterness. Sundown caught a glimpse of something familiar in Maverick’s eyes, and he hailed the bartender, ordered the next round like he’d promised. His grandmother always told him never to dig a hole deeper than his shovel; otherwise he’d never know when to climb out.

“Chipper’s stationed around here, isn’t he?”

From one great subject to the next. “Yeah, he is.” And because Sundown was the absolute _king_ of conversational segues, sober or not, he added, “He’s married now. Two stepdaughters, house with a white picket fence. The whole nine yards.” 

“Ah.” Maverick’s gaze held understanding. Too much understanding. Sundown took an overlarge gulp of his bourbon to avoid thinking about that for too long. Lucky for him wincing at the sharp burn was a great distraction. “Good for him.”

“Yeah,” Sundown said, and they sat there in silence for a while, the two of them, thinking about how good Chipper had it. The American dream, a life of comfort and security. A life where he could lounge around wearing wings that had long since gone dusty and look up at the sky and just see clouds where he’d once seen freedom and possibility. A life that Sundown had put off until time had caught up with him, blurred his vision and put gray in his hair and taken all other options off the table.

Maverick understood, though. He had to have. He was still a captain when he could’ve been a two star admiral like Chipper by now, maybe even three stars like Iceman. He wasn’t pushing the envelope up there just because he could, or even because they needed him — like Sundown, he wasn’t married, didn’t have kids, nothing to keep his feet on the ground. Flying was all either of them had left.

“I’m sorry about Goose.”

Maverick looked at him, the movement sudden and sharp. “What?”

Sundown stared into the bottom of his glass, a little embarrassed and a lot uncomfortable — who could have guessed that shoving down all that non-regulation grief back in the day wasn’t a viable long-term solution — but too far gone to turn back now. “I never told you that,” he said, and lifted his gaze to meet Maverick’s. The pain in them made the green burn brighter, made Sundown feel like he was looking directly into the sun. “I should have, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

The quaver in his voice, the trembling of his hands. Sundown hadn’t known it then, but he’d been standing on the edge of the precipice that Maverick had long since fallen over.

He wondered, in all the time since, if anyone had bothered to help Maverick back up.

“I’m sorry.”

Sundown blinked. “What?”

“I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did.” The words came out in a rush, like they’d long been shoved down where the sun didn’t shine. Sundown stared at him. “I just couldn’t — I couldn’t feel when to take the shot, I couldn’t…” 

“Couldn’t feel much of anything,” Sundown said, before he could stop himself.

Maverick let out a breath, made a convulsive little movement that wasn’t quite a nod but was a confirmation anyway. “I shouldn’t have made it your problem,” he said quietly, seriously. His voice made something in Sundown’s chest ache. _“I_ shouldn’t have been your problem. I’m sorry.”

Sundown didn’t offer absolution — nor, he thought, did it seem like Maverick wanted him to — but he appreciated the apology, and said as much.

The silence after that was more companionable, as they drained their glasses and watched the bar start to drain of life again. The bartender yawned and checked her phone in the corner while he and Maverick talked about aircraft the way Sundown’s father used to talk about the Miracle Mets, or the Koufax-era Dodgers.

“Chip never got over your stunt with that MiG. Always said you had to have faked it, even after Goose showed him the Polaroid.” Sundown snorted. “I told him once I’d bring a camera into the cockpit just in case we got the opportunity one day to see a MiG up close.”

“Did you ever get the chance?”

Sundown hummed. “Not as up close as you and Goose got, and we were right-side up the whole time, but yeah. We chased it off, and I had the camera lifted up to take the perfect shot, but it didn’t work out.”

Maverick frowned. “Why?”

Sundown shrugged. “Ran out of film.”

Maverick laughed out loud. The corners of his mouth curved up into a smile — a real one, no feigned politeness in sight — and Sundown meant to grin back, but he was too preoccupied with the sudden shallowness of his next breath. He knew Maverick was good-looking, always had been, but Christ. The man could probably topple civilizations with that smile. “I bet you had your fair share of stunts anyway.”

“Nothing as exciting as what you’ve gotten up to, I bet.”

“Ah, sorry. That’s classified.”

“Right, right. You’d tell me, but then you’d have to kill me.”

“Exactly.”

So caught up was Sundown in the look in Maverick’s eyes that he didn’t even notice the bartender was beside them until she cleared her throat again, impatient. She slid the check between them and collected their empty glasses before walking over to the group of officers who’d just strutted through the doors like they owned the place. Maybe they did. Who was Sundown to judge.

Their hands met as Sundown reached for the check — just the lightest, faintest brush of skin, but one look at Maverick and the way he was looking at Sundown now and Sundown knew he had him. It’d been a long time since someone had looked at him like that, and even longer since he’d wanted them to.

Maverick didn’t ask him if he wanted to get out of there, didn’t turn on the charm like he might have back in the day. He just kept his hand right where it was, kept his eyes on Sundown, and Sundown kept his eyes on him, and nodded once.

As the kids said these days, that was all she wrote.

* * *

Maverick didn’t show up in class after that day, or the next day. For Sundown, the last few days of the session passed in a blur of residual anger and guilt, and soon enough, he was in his dress whites watching Jester speechify and Viper solemnly hand Iceman and Slider the plaque.

Chipper had leaned over at one point to ask him where Maverick was — like Sundown had any clue. If Viper hadn’t managed to conjure Maverick out of thin air for today, he could be anywhere from Anaheim to Zihuatanejo by now. He felt bad for Maverick, of course, but he couldn’t help his irritation. Christ, you flew with the guy one time, and suddenly everyone and their mother thought you had all the answers. 

And then Maverick showed up out of the blue anyway. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t do anything but walk through the crowd with his head held up high and congratulate Iceman and Slider on their victory. If he held any hard feelings, they didn’t show on his face. Sundown admired him for that.

“You gonna talk to him?” Hollywood asked him, while Chipper was talking to Wolfman about something. Sundown finished his champagne, shook his head.

“He wants to talk to me, he can come over here himself.”

If Maverick had wanted to, Viper’s announcement killed his mood. Killed everybody’s mood, really, as he and Jester handed out deployment papers like Halloween candy. Sundown was happy to be going back to the _Ranger_ with Chipper, even if they weren’t carrying the plaque with them, but felt his stomach twinge as the others got sent off to fix whatever crisis was going on over the Indian Ocean. He hoped they’d all come through unscathed.

Sundown spotted Maverick for a moment, after the crowd had mostly dispersed. Chipper was tipsy from the champagne, and he had an arm over Sundown’s shoulders as they stumbled through the parking lot together, laughing. Maverick had one leg swung over his bike, watching the two of them with something almost like longing.

“Mitchell!”

Maverick startled so bad he nearly fell off his bike. He stared at Sundown, waiting with an indecipherable look on his face, and Sundown swallowed hard. The anger from that day on the runway was seeping back into his skin, telling him to tell Maverick like it was, ask him if he had anything to say to him before he left, maybe even grab him by the front of his shirt to see how he liked it. But when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t say any of it. Couldn't even think it, not with Maverick looking at him like he half expected to get hit. Like he half _wanted_ to get hit.

“Good luck out there, Maverick.”

Maverick looked at Sundown for a second longer, then gave a tiny little nod. A thank you, maybe, or at least an acknowledgement. And then, just as fast, he got the engine roaring, kicked off the ground, and was gone in a cloud of dust.

The news of the success of the Layton rescue reached the _Ranger_ a week later. It took Sundown twice that long to stop smiling about it.

* * *

The door to his hotel room had barely closed behind them before Maverick was in his arms. He cupped Sundown’s face with hands that were still cool from the night air and kissed him, gently at first, then deeper, hungrily, and made a strangled little noise when Sundown gently took Maverick’s wrists in hand and pinned them to the wall, pressing him up against the plaster. He felt the flutter of Maverick’s pulse when he bent to kiss the base of his throat, then higher, at the point of his jaw. He wanted to take this slow. He wanted to feel this.

“I’m not your prom date, Sundown.” Maverick's smirk was dark at the edges, his voice low and softer than Sundown's touch. “Come on, I’m not gonna break. I can take it.”

Sundown didn’t mention the stiffness of Maverick’s movements from the parking lot to the lobby, or the low wince he’d made when he sat down in the bar stool, or the rough line of the still-red scar near his clavicle. He tightened the grip he had on Maverick's wrists for a moment, but kept his voice steady. “Maybe I want to take my time with you, Maverick.”

Maverick tipped his head back, shut his eyes tight for a couple of unsteady breaths. Sundown guided Maverick's wrists to his shoulders, felt Maverick's fingers dig into the fabric, and let Maverick pull him in and down again when he was ready. His neck ached from all the leaning down; he wasn’t used to that, his partners weren't usually shorter than him. Chipper was — Sundown cut that thought off right quick. That wasn't fair. Not here, not now. He wondered, as Maverick guided them toward the bed, if Maverick was used to craning his neck like this. He wondered who Maverick was thinking about as he kicked Sundown’s suitcase out of the way, and they fell onto the bed together.

Sundown’s hands found Maverick’s waist, and he leaned in to kiss him, slowly, setting the pace this time. Maverick’s hand cupped the curve of Sundown’s jaw and slid up, then faltered when he touched Sundown’s hair, like he wasn’t sure where to go. His left stayed steady and slid loose the buttons of Sundown’s shirt, one by one. Sundown threaded his fingers through Maverick’s hair, kept him close by even as they broke apart for air; he undid Maverick’s belt, slipped his trousers down around his hips, then his underwear, and let Maverick do the same to him with careful hands. They were face to face now, Maverick lying atop him, their clothes cast aside. Sundown could smell the bourbon on Maverick’s breath, felt the hitch of Maverick’s chest against his when Sundown took him in hand and started to stroke.

Maverick rocked against him, breathing heavily, his pupils blown; Sundown pulled him closer, and Maverick kissed the corner of Sundown’s mouth, his throat. Sundown could feel his entire world winnowing down to that point, to Maverick’s mouth on his neck — and then to another, when Maverick reached down to wrap his hand half around Sundown’s cock. They moved together now, wrapped in Sundown’s hand, and in Maverick’s hand, following the same rhythm. Sundown could feel the heat building at the base of his spine, in his legs, his stomach, and clutched Maverick's shoulder with his free hand. He took Maverick’s lower lip into his mouth, pressed his teeth into it, and Maverick suddenly came with a low noise like he’d been punched. Sundown thrusted into the circle of Maverick's hand again once, twice, before following him to climax. 

They laid together after, under the satiny sheets that were a hint too smooth to be comfortable. Maverick had his head in the crook of Sundown’s neck, and didn’t protest when Sundown carded his fingers through Maverick’s hair the way Chipper once liked, or when Sundown smoothed his hand over Maverick’s hip, brushing up against the rough skin there. The moon was bright through the window, the sky clear, and Sundown closed his eyes. He petted Maverick’s hair and breathed out, and he promised himself that he’d figure out breakfast — and everything that went with it — in the morning.


End file.
